Complete Poems

But a divine power drives us, whatever that may be: I think
Some have called it Fate; by others it is named Chance.
Thus, as if what weighs upon each one has happened by a heap.
Hence the mindless sailor presses himself, and urgent in his own destruction,
He makes himself a profit for others. The soldier thus dedicates
The honored breath of life to a fatal hour, prodigal as he is,
And fears not to wish for death. He deems it the only honor
Not to have lived, unless he dies in dull glory.

Therefore, whether this was given, from whence the power to give existed;
Or whether it was snatched rashly, and prudence holds no praise:
This is the miserable comfort I pant for in lost authority.
Not to mention, from the anxious whirlpool of things,
Alas, in what a miserable state the unhappy mind fluctuates,
In this port the breathable ardor of Phoebus refreshes me.
And it is pleasing, having emerged from the grim labyrinths
Of the Stagirite, to be cherished by a moderate and gentle breeze,
Which, rising for me from the tender breast of the Muses,
Breathes rest into this concern, and this pleasant labor.

But if I should not attain the fame sought, or even extorted,
Through much struggle with others—being slender and inept—
That is nothing. I do not seek this. I aspire to this: that I alone
May be seen to have lived far from this profane populace.

Contempt of Death, and Constancy.

When will it be, that near the grim fords of the glassy Garonne,
It may be permitted us to contemplate the origins of the world?
Or why the great alumnus of Miletus should claim these titles
For moisture, or why the force of the ocean, stirred by receding limits,
Inserts itself differently here, where you reign,
Than in other places, Brassacus. Or what, finally, the origin
Of the river may be: how the seas hang and swell in surging waves,
Rising to the full moon as if pregnant.

After these things, or before, as it befits us to live. For
Both to know and to do make us blessed.